The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  Prakna went ashen. ‘Jelena, I will do what must be done. No more or less.’

  ‘Like you did with the Naren ship?’

  The commander nodded. ‘It was necessary. And the Jackal still knows nothing of it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Jelena sadly. ‘He believes your story. We’ve deceived him perfectly, and that troubles me, too.’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Prakna. ‘He’s a good man. I don’t take pride in lying to him. But he will get what we promised him. He’ll have his revenge on Biagio. That should satisfy him. You heard it yourself – that’s all he wants.’

  Jelena grimaced. She hated herself for deceiving Richius, her beautiful new friend from across the ocean. He was nothing like other Narens. He was a hero. Certainly, he deserved better than lies.

  ‘I don’t want you to do any more than you must to take Crote,’ she said finally. ‘Richius wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Prakna.

  ‘Do you? I’ve heard about your handiwork, Prakna.’

  The fleet commander leaned back, obviously offended. ‘Jelena, did it ever occur to you that the Naren pigs on that dreadnought might have been the same ones that slew your parents? Or Shii’s child? Would you feel so bad for them then?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Jelena. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t. So let me do my job. Let me erase the memory of Liss the Raped. Let’s make sure the Empire of Nar doesn’t trifle with us again.’

  The speech stoked a fire deep within her. He was right, of course. Nar deserved every bit of derision. Jelena didn’t care about Nar, but she did care about Richius Vantran, more deeply than she had ever thought possible.

  ‘I want no harm to come to the Jackal,’ she said firmly. ‘Or I swear, Prakna, you will know my anger.’

  The fleet commander grinned. ‘I respect that boy as much as you do, my Queen. I swear to you, I won’t let anything happen to him.’

  ‘And the other one. Simon Darquis. I see how you hate him, Prakna. Give me your word you will protect him, too.’

  The commander frowned. ‘Don’t make me wet-nurse that pig, please.’

  ‘Your word, Prakna,’ she insisted. ‘You will treat him as an ally. Yes?’

  After a long pause, Prakna reluctantly acquiesced. ‘I promise,’ he said bitterly. ‘But I don’t approve.’

  ‘You don’t have to like it,’ Jelena reminded him. ‘Just do as I say.’ She smiled to herself, remembering Richius’ words. ‘After all, I am the queen.’

  Thirty-Nine

  Eleven Lords

  Two days after the tragedy of Eestrii, Herrith and his loyal Naren lords set out for Biagio’s island of Crote.

  It had been a surprisingly easy decision for the bishop, because he knew he simply had no other choice, and the Naren lords agreed. Biagio could reach them, even from his island. With the orchestrated murder of Vorto and the destruction of the cathedral, Biagio had proven that he could not be safely ignored. And Herrith, distraught over the death of Lorla, didn’t care about his own safety anymore. He hoped only to convince Biagio that the Black Renaissance was a godless heresy, and that the Empire had been better off since the old emperor’s death. He was not planning on handing the Iron Throne over to Biagio. None of the Naren lords would agree to that, anyway. This journey was simply the opening of a dialogue. Where it would lead, no one wanted to guess.

  Archbishop Herrith chose eleven Naren lords to accompany him to Crote, the most influential men in the Black City. Among them was Baron Ricter, master of the Tower of Truth; Claudi Vos, Arkus’ former Lord Architect; Tepas Talshiir, the city’s leading merchant, who lived in a royal-sized palace of his own; and Kivis Gago, Nar’s Minister of Arms, representing the civilian interests of the Empire’s military machine. Since Vorto’s death, Kivis Gago had been very busy, rearranging the power structure of the legions and convincing the irate soldiers that he was capable of leading them. The military leadership had been calling for Biagio’s head in retribution for Vorto’s slaughter, and Kivis Gago’s job was to convince them that this was essentially impossible, at least for now. Biagio was on an island, with the entire Black Fleet protecting him. It was this fact, more than any other, that convinced the eleven lords to accompany Herrith to Crote. Biagio had forced them into a corner.

  It was a gray morning when Herrith and the noblemen, all accompanied by throngs of bodyguards, embarked from the docks of Nar City. The Fearless and her two sister dreadnoughts waited far off in the harbor, and Nicabar had sent long rowboats to ferry his passengers over. Herrith was the only one who didn’t bring guardians. Not even Father Todos accompanied the bishop on the dock. With the Cathedral of the Martyrs in ruins, every one of Herrith’s priests and acolytes was needed in the Black City. There were deep spiritual wounds to tend, for the audacious attack had left the population stunned.

  It is now,’ Herrith had told Todos, ‘that we really do the work of God.’

  God might want him to speak to Biagio, or God might not. Herrith didn’t know, because his prayers went unanswered. He was quickly becoming faithless. As he shivered in the cold, waiting for his own ferry boat, he wondered if God had abandoned him. Or if he had abandoned God. He saw the sunlight glint off the big guns of the Fearless. The warship had her cannons trained on the city. One slip-up, Nicabar had promised – one act of sabotage against his vessels – and he would open fire. He would pummel Nar City day and night in retaliation to any attack. That message had gone to Herrith and Kivis Gago both. Gago in turn relayed it to the legions, who impotently agreed. At least for a while, there would be a truce.

  Time enough, Herrith hoped. He pulled up the collar of his coat, hating the wind. He was sick and weak, and the thought of the long sea voyage brought bile to his throat. The last effects of the drug had worn off and his entire body was in rebellion, hellishly craving more. He thought his bones might break in the breeze, and he had swallowed down pain-killing potions from his physicians, hoping to stem the unbearable pain. The remedies were useless. Herrith had been through the drug withdrawal before. He knew the ordeal facing him.

  From across the harbor, another of the long rowboats approached. Herrith spied it warily. It bore the markings of the Fearless. He and Kivis Gago both would be traveling aboard Nicabar’s flagship. Apparently, Nicabar hoped to prepare them for the coming peace talks. The other Naren lords, steadfastly refusing Nicabar’s hospitality, would voyage on Black City and Intruder. Herrith braced himself as the boat approached the dock. On board were four sailors, all of them dressed in the dark uniform of the fleet. As the boat slid into a mooring, one of the sailors, obviously a man of some rank, jumped out and approached them. Kivis Gago’s bodyguards coiled, ready to defend their master.

  ‘Archbishop Herrith,’ said the seaman loudly. ‘My name is Lieutenant R’Jinn. I’m to take you aboard the Fearless, along with Minister Gago.’ He gave the minister a polite bow. ‘Admiral Nicabar requests that you be at ease. He promises no trickery, and that no harm will come to any of you aboard his vessel.’

  ‘That better be true,’ spat Gago. He was a tall man, prone to gaudy threats. ‘If anything happens to me, Nicabar will be the most hunted man in the world.’

  The seaman didn’t flinch. ‘You may bring your bodyguards or any belongings you wish. Admiral Nicabar wants your voyage to be a pleasant one.’

  ‘I go nowhere without my bodyguards, pup,’ sneered Gago. ‘I don’t need Nicabar’s permission.’

  ‘And I don’t have any bodyguards,’ said Herrith. ‘Just take us aboard.’

  The lieutenant frowned. He looked at the stooped bishop, and Herrith thought he saw pity in his eyes.

  ‘Very well,’ said the sailor. ‘Let me help you.’

  Weak from sickness, Herrith didn’t refuse the offer. Two more sailors climbed out of the rowboat to help him aboard. Every step was an agony. His head swam with nausea and his joints screamed with fire, and when he placed his foot into the boat, the rocking of the vessel mad
e him groan. The lieutenant guided him into one of the benchlike seats. Herrith took a weary breath. He felt unconscionably old.

  When Kivis Gago and half his bodyguards were aboard, the rowboat shoved off again. Another was passing them, approaching the dock. The second vessel would take the rest of the minister’s entourage to the Fearless. Gago sat down next to Herrith, rocking the boat with his weight.

  ‘Traitorous skunks,’ he scoffed, loud enough for the sailors to hear. Gago had always been a loudmouth, and Herrith wished one of the other lords had come with him instead. None of them was a friend, precisely, but he cared for Gago the least. Like General Vorto, Gago didn’t know when to keep quiet. Herrith looked out over the sea toward the waiting Naren flagship. He had never been aboard a dreadnought before, and wondered what it would be like. Nicabar had been among the best of the Iron Circle. Herrith wished the admiral had never sided with Biagio.

  Biagio is a demon, he thought miserably. A monster who lies with men and makes the best out of every vice.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When Arkus had died, Herrith had seized the Empire for good reasons. Now those reasons seemed specious. There had been far too much bloodshed for him to think it worth the struggle. He had ordered the deaths of thousands and wasn’t sure anymore what God would think of that.

  And then there was Lorla.

  The memory of his precious adopted daughter brought a lump to his throat. Had she been part of Biagio’s designs? Probably. She was just one more of Bovadin’s wicked creations. The war labs had given Nar the acid launcher and the flame cannons and the heartless, world-eating Formula B. Herrith had no doubts that Bovadin could turn his foul imagination loose on a child. The midget had already proven his diabolical nature, a hundred times over. After walking through the rubble of his cathedral, Herrith had seen the twisted remnants of Bovadin’s device. He still didn’t really know what it was, but he knew that only Bovadin could have constructed it.

  Herrith thought back to something that Lorla had told him once, that she was something very special. At the time he had merely grinned like a proud father, agreeing with her. But now he knew the dark truth of things. It was the only explanation that made sense. She had lured him to the toymaker, begging for the dollhouse. And she had gotten to him through Enli, whose treason was now infamous. But she had never feigned her love for him.

  That was real, he told himself. Maybe it had started false, but in the end she had loved him. She had even tried to save him.

  The Fearless loomed ever larger. The rowboat cut through the waves, anxious to reach its mother. Herrith and Gago stared up at the growing warship, mesmerized by its giantness. The dreadnought was behemoth, and its numerous cannons poked out of its gun deck like the thorns of a beautiful, dangerous rose. Lieutenant R’Jinn guided the rowboat to the side of the vessel. A long rope ladder dropped down to greet them. All along the deck, Herrith saw more sailors staring down at them. His holy presence broke their militant professionalism, and some of them pointed at him, surprised and maybe pleased to see him.

  They’re all your flock, Herrith reminded himself. Even if they serve an evil master.

  ‘Archbishop,’ called the lieutenant. ‘Think you can climb that ladder?’

  Herrith looked at the ladder sourly. ‘God is testing me,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said R’Jinn encouragingly. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Herrith. He waited until the rowboat came to a stop, then got shakily to his feet. Lieutenant R’Jinn and two other crewmen grabbed hold of his arms, guiding him out of the boat. The little platform pitched and rolled, making Herrith ill. He summoned all the strength he could, refusing to look weak, and took the ladder in his hands. With a powerful grunt he lifted himself onto the first rung. R’Jinn and the others helped by pushing. Kivis Gago gave a laugh, clapping.

  ‘Well done, Herrith,’ he joked. ‘You can do it!’

  The insult was all the prodding Herrith needed. He summoned his remaining strength, struggling up the ladder just to show the arrogant nobleman he was able. It was a long climb, but with R’Jinn beneath him for support he made it to the top without slipping. When two more sailors on the deck helped him aboard, he had a giant smile on his face. But the smile vanished quickly. Standing in front of him was Admiral Danar Nicabar.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Herrith,’ said the commander. ‘This is an honor.’

  Surprisingly, there was no gloating in Nicabar’s tone. His stony countenance held not a trace of arrogance. Herrith, breathing hard, nodded at the admiral.

  ‘It seems you were right, Danar,’ he said. ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Biagio was right,’ Nicabar corrected. ‘Myself, I never thought you’d come aboard.’

  ‘Peace guides my actions, Danar, not personal gain. Peace is the only reason I’ve agreed to speak with your wicked master.’

  Nicabar smiled. ‘Very well, Herrith. As I said, I’m glad to have you aboard. We’re going to try to make this as pleasant as possible for you. I have a cabin ready for you. It’s one of the largest on board.’

  Herrith scoffed. ‘Not as big as yours, I’m sure.’

  ‘Big enough,’ said Nicabar. ‘You’ll be well cared for, I promise.’

  ‘I’m not a pet, Admiral’

  Nicabar sighed. ‘Do you want to see it? Or do you want to stand in the cold like a fool? Personally, I think you should rest. You look awful’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve been through a lot recently,’ jabbed Herrith. He stared at Nicabar hard. ‘But you already know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Casualties of war, Herrith,’ replied Nicabar. ‘And no worse than some of the things you’ve done.’

  It was true, so Herrith didn’t argue. ‘Take me to my quarters,’ he said. ‘Let’s get going as soon as we can. I—’

  His words died in his mouth. Across the deck he saw the diminutive figure of Bovadin. The scientist was coming toward him.

  ‘You!’ Herrith roared, losing all control. ‘You little monster!’

  Bovadin put up his hands. ‘Easy, Herrith . . .’

  Herrith bolted forward and grabbed the midget’s lapels, lifting him off the ground. Howling, he wrestled Bovadin to the edge of the deck, pinning him against the railing. All the strength of the drug flashed back into his muscles with a wrathful charge. The midget struggled to get free, gasping.

  ‘Herrith, stop!’ he cried. ‘Stop!’

  Nicabar came rushing forward. He pulled Herrith away from the rail. Herrith held fast to Bovadin, shaking him.

  ‘You murderous beast!’ he seethed. ‘You killed her!’

  ‘Herrith, stop!’ Nicabar demanded. He pulled the bishop roughly off of Bovadin. Three crewmen rushed into the fight, stepping between them. Herrith roared at Bovadin even as the sailors dragged him away.

  ‘We’re not done, dwarf!’ he swore. ‘Not at all. I’ll see you burn in Hell for what you did!’

  ‘I’ll meet you there, Herrith!’ the midget shot back. Nicabar held him back with a single hand, but Bovadin fought scrappily against him, cursing at Herrith. ‘This is your war. You started it.’

  ‘Shut up, both of you!’ thundered Nicabar. He tossed Bovadin aside like an insect. ‘Get away, Bovadin. I told you not to come up here.’

  ‘Danar . . .’

  ‘Go!’

  The scientist glared once more at Herrith, then strode away, shaking his head. Nicabar turned on the bishop.

  ‘You’re stronger than you look,’ he quipped. ‘But I won’t have a spectacle like that again. This is my vessel. You want to kill Bovadin? Do it when you get to Crote.’

  ‘I just might,’ hissed Herrith. ‘And maybe you, too.’

  Admiral Nicabar growled, ‘Come with me. Let me lock you in your cabin!’

  Exhausted from the melee, Herrith followed willingly. Nicabar led him through a narrow hatchway in the bridge, down a small flight of wooden stairs and into a claustrophobic, swaying corridor. At the end of the corridor the ad
miral paused at a door, opening it and gesturing inside.

  ‘This is your cabin,’ he said sharply. ‘I think you’ll find it has everything you need.’

  Herrith peered inside. It was ridiculously small, with only a cot built into the wall and a small table and chair. On the table was a letter, stamped with the familiar seal of Count Biagio. Herrith froze when he saw it. Holding the letter to the table was a paperweight – a small vial of blue liquid.

  ‘Oh, no,’ whispered Herrith. ‘Please . . .’

  ‘From Biagio,’ Nicabar explained. ‘He knew you’d need it by now. The apparatus for taking it is stored under the bunk.’ The admiral gave a victorious smile. ‘Feel better, Herrith,’ he said, then stepped aside to let Herrith enter the cabin. The bishop stumbled over to the table. He picked up the vial and stared at it, dreading the upcoming decision.

  ‘You should have thrown it overboard,’ he said. ‘It’s poison, Danar.’

  The admiral’s blue eyes laughed. ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Oh, you’re wrong,’ Herrith said. ‘You’ve very wrong.’

  ‘Rest,’ advised Nicabar. ‘It’s a two-day voyage to Crote. I’ll send a cabin boy to see to your needs after we get under way. If you need anything, ask me.’

  Nicabar was being very kind, making Herrith suspicious. ‘I don’t want to be interrupted,’ he said. ‘When I need anything, I’ll get it myself’

  ‘Stop being a fool, Herrith. You don’t know your way around the ship and my crew isn’t yours to order around. Let the cabin boy help you. That’s what he’s here for.’

  Nicabar left the cabin, shutting the door behind him. Herrith slumped down in the small chair. He studied the vial, hating it and loving it, dying to pour it into his veins. His body screamed for its soothing power. He licked his lips, unsure what he should do, then noticed Biagio’s letter. His hand trembling, he put down the vial and reached for the envelope, opening it.

  My dear Herrith, the letter began.